My first Obernewtyn fic! This is my interpretation of what happened after Ariel's escape from the cave in the first book. Written in response to the 9th writing competition.
I Will Live
ElspethElf
On a night when the mountain decided to be at its most savage, no one caught in the storm was expected to live. Heavy snow made each trudge of step slow and treacherous, and the wind, the wind was the most merciless of all. It blew from every direction with a coldness that froze right down to the bones however thick the clothing, relentless in its savage quest to strip away the faintest warmth of life.
In a storm like this, everyone – particularly a small, delicate boy-child – would almost certainly perish.
Ariel did not.
Frail, quaking, and blue with cold, he stumbled blindly through the forest. He could not see in the white darkness, judging his way only by the sloping of the ground. Bent double under the unyielding wind, he crawled through the snow, inch by inch, breath by breath.
He had to get away, as far away from Obernewtyn as possible. He had a chance. He knew they would not be looking for him for a while yet; no one was foolish enough to go out in a snowstorm. The severe cold would get to you first, if not the wild beasts that roamed the landscape – hadn't he told the misfits enough times himself? Yet caught between capture and a chance of escape, even the smallest of chance, he preferred to brave the elements. He would rather die than face capture and the torment of humiliation. He would rather have his organs ripped from his body in the teeth of wolves than admit failure and submit to that… that arrogant, slippery orphan.
Bitch.
Barely full-grown, she had thwarted all of their careful work, their perfect plan, their future. Vega was dead. Dead, and the girl did not even move an inch towards her. He could not understand it. Somehow they had all underestimated the capability of her mind, overlooked her seeming ignorance for stupidity.
It was a shame Vega died, for he prospered under the woman's ambitions. He fed on her lust for power like a leech, and he liked his comfortable place beneath her wing; influential enough to have authority over the misfits, yet with an insignificance that allowed him to slip away on the brink of disaster. That was how he escaped from the cave.
And Alexi? Well, he deserved what he got.
The wind roared, pushing his frostbitten body. Promptly he crumpled to the ground. His face stung painfully against the icy snow, and in that second, he felt his life seep into the cold.
Live! He screamed in his head, forcing his limbs to pick himself up. If he stayed motionless for too long, his whole body would freeze.
Live! He screamed mentally again. I will not die. They have seen me fail and seen me fall, but my survival would be the ultimate revenge.
In the end it was the wolves that made him move – that and his rage. On the first howl, his sluggish mind was brought to the present. Coldness, danger, and need for shelter. And then came the haunting, lingering chain of cries, and with it came the terrible memories: wolves, his wolves, tearing through the flesh of what should have been her body, spilling the lifeblood that she should have spilt long ago. He seethed at the memory, and fury brought him strength.
Numb with cold, he crawled along the ground. His hands groped for anything stable to pull himself along, and through grim determination, he progressed forwards by clawing away through fistful after fistful of snow. He heard a low, terrifying moan, and realised it came from himself. It sounded so wretched, so piteous that he stopped moving, stunned that he should sound so unforgivably weak. The wind surged against him, and again he was flattened against the snow.
Rage, he reminded himself. Rage is my friend.
He began to crawl again but this time, every instant that he thought he would die, that he could go on no longer, he opened his mind to the memories and welcomed the bitter anger that came with it. Anger was good. He knew that as long as he was alive enough to feel, to think, his burning rage would melt the coldest of snow.
What happened at the cave, he wondered bitterly. She was supposed to give in, to quail under the Zebkrahn's power. She was supposed to reveal the location of the maps and then be killed, along with that meddlesome overseer.
He supposed many things, and they all failed him.
Rushton. Vega said he was the true master of Obernewtyn. No doubt he would not waste time in claiming the land as his own. No doubt he would be out looking for Ariel's dead body as soon as the storm calmed. He supposed Rushton would search thoroughly – he was shrew enough not to risk overlooking a section – and then claim him to have perished in the snow. How they would gloat, Ariel thought with vehemence. How they would cheer and rejoice and claim freedom of their pathetic, freakish, Lud-cursed lives.
Hot, flaming rage rushed through his veins, striking him almost mad with fury at the turn of events. Nonetheless it gave him strength and fuelled, if not his body than his mind, into constant motion.
Reach, drag, move forwards, rest.
Reach, drag, move forwards, rest.
With mechanic movements, he slowly made his way down the mountain and came to contact with the base of a small cliff. He crawled along the face and on finding a crevice, collapsed into the suffusing darkness. It was just as cold, just as snow-covered as outside, but the wind had a lesser sharpness to its edge, and closing his eyes, he sank into a deep, hopeless sleep.
He had no memory of the passing time. Sleep took him on like a brick, and he dreamt fretfully of sharp screams and smouldering fires. He woke to find all of his limbs hard and blue, seconds from becoming frozen had he not slept so that his body pressed down on them, trapping heat. Painfully he sat up, and looked down at his hands. The fingers were mashed and tangled together, no longer the lithe and graceful weapon that he enjoyed drumming on tables. He agonized that he should loose them.
Slowly, measuring each movement with caution, Ariel dragged himself onto his feet. He could not bend them, and walking became the awkward and absurd process of raising one, knee-locked leg into the air and plunging it back down to the snow with a thump, and then the same with the other leg. One leg at a time, one humiliation after another.
The ground beneath him gave way. His body was too slow to react and he fell, rolling and tumbling down the hill without control. Branches tore at his skin, and the collision with a tree nearly took his eye.
That night he found a hollow tree and crawled in. Famished, freezing and utterly exhausted, he rocked himself to sleep. His face stung; there were pear-shaped ice droplets stuck to his cheeks. Were they tears? He was horrified at the thought. Or simply sweat? Frozen even as they dripped down his face.
Day turned into night, night back to day, and still Ariel stumbled on, always heading downhill, away from Obernewtyn. He did not understand why he was not dead yet, or why no savage beast had ripped him apart. But any luck he had so far was running out. He had not eaten for days and his body heat ran dangerously low. It would not be long before sleep became the last thing he did.
He despaired. For the first time since his escape he despaired and, in a fusion of white trauma and black torment, he cried. His voice was small and weak, the whimper of a lost child. He angered and relished in crying, hated and loved those short, hitched gasps for air as dry sobs racked his throat. Showing weakness was a bad thing, he knew, but ignoring it was worse.
He did not know his cries were heard, nor did he see the heavy boots that tramped across the snow to his hideout. His eyes went dark, and all he remembered was the feeling of hands lifting him up and carrying him away.
Warmth. Glorious, heavenly warmth. The ground, too, was wonderfully soft, without any sharp stones to dig into his back. Faintly he heard voices. They were too muffled and indistinct to be made sense of, yet they were definitely talking about him.
He whimpered. The voices stopped, and suddenly someone was dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth.
'Why do you mollycoddle him? He is still a prisoner.'
'Hush. Father said to take care of him until he wakes,'
The second voice was female; still the high-pitched one of a girl's, though it carried a steely, metallic quality that reminded Ariel of Madam Vega. 'Besides,' the girl continued calmly. 'He must be well enough for questioning.'
'Throw him out is what I'd do,' the first voice interrupted. This was a male, and he sounded defensive. 'Look at him. He is nothing but a child – an abandoned orphan most likely. What can he possibly tell of importance to us?'
'Do you question the Druid?' the female voice asked coldly. 'Do you think he would not have a good reason for keeping the boy alive? I assure you, should the boy turn out to be useless to us, my father's hospitality will not extend.'
The male seemed only slightly fazed by the sharp answer. 'I did not mean any disrespect to your father, Erin. My only concern is our low supplies, and with another charge to feed…'
'Your concern is appreciated. Now you may go and fetch father. I think the boy is near waking.'
She was almost right. To anyone's eyes, Ariel looked to be in deep slumber. He made his face especially passive, eyes shut, delicate brows drawn together in a picture of vulnerability. He was good at feigning frailty, and had come to learn that if he wanted it badly enough, no one could resist him.
Behind his sleeping demeanour, however, his mind worked like lightening. In just one short conversation Ariel learnt three very important things – things that would possibility save his life.
He knew that he was in Henry Druid's camp. A prisoner, no doubt, unless he proved useful in what he knew. That was going to be tricky. If he proclaimed to be no one special, knew nothing special, they would likely kill him. The girl, Erin, had said it herself. But if he confessed coming from Obernewtyn and knowing its owners, they definitely would kill him. After making him talk first, of course. Ariel knew the Druid's hatred for misfits, and knew that there was little to convince him that he himself was not one.
He also learnt that the camp was in shortage of supplies. He was more than sure it was food that worried the male speaker. That could be useful. A deal of some sort could be made; a hungry camp would always be willing.
But even as he thought of this, his mind laughed. It was an absurd notion, given the situation. Why in Lud's name would Henry Druid agree to strike any sort of deal with a half-frozen boy-child?
No. Better stick to the third knowledge: the clipped, female voice belonged to the daughter of the druid himself. That, Ariel was certain, could definitely be used to his advantage.
He heard the pouring of water, and then a faint clink. Suddenly his throat was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth like a bloated slug, itching for water. He was going to cough at any second.
Well, now was as good a time as ever to wake, he supposed.
A soft, pleading moan escaped from his throat. He squeezed his eyes, and turned his head on the pillow, ruffling his flaxen, white-blond hair. Then, very gently, his eyes opened in a brush of thick, fair lashes. As he expected, the girl was looking intently at him.
Their eyes met, touching each other across the silent space. She was young, and very attractive. Everything about her was neat and perfect, from the stitching of her garment to the ribbon in her hair. Her face was rosy, bold, the expression of one who was very aware of her looks. She possessed the kind of prettiness that could bring the heart to a flutter, could wheedle its way through anything. Could manipulate.
He also knew how to manipulate.
'Are you a vision?'
Ariel's voice was small and shy. Tentative.
The girl's eyes widened at the startling question and took a step back. She was expecting confusion, fear, anger, even. She did not realise her mouth was open, struggling for words before the boy with the beautiful face.
'You are so beautiful,' Ariel whispered, and smiled shyly.
The girl pinked prettily and lowered her head, undeniably flattered. She smiled back at him, her wits slowly returning.
'I am Erin, daughter of the Druid,' she said eagerly, leaning across the bed. 'You are in my father's camp. His men found you dying in the snow and brought you here.'
To the girl's dismay, Ariel shrank away from her, his eyes wide with fear. 'Those men,' he whispered. 'What will they do to me?'
He was so vulnerable, so utterly naïve in his child-like manner that it took Erin's heart away. She dropped to her knees and leaned on the bed, closer to the fragile boy, wanting to protect him. 'Don't you worry,' she told him fiercely. 'Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I will make sure of it.'
Ariel mouth quivered in an uncertain smile and he looked up at her with adoring eyes. It was with the same adoration that she gazed back. The difference was, she meant it.
Carefully Ariel sat up. When Erin propped a pillow behind his back to make him more comfortable, he tilted his blond head and beamed at her. It was a smile that melted Erin's heart.
At the sight of the bandages on his hand, Ariel stopped and stared at it. He could not see any of his fingers; they were wrapped into one, thick bundle that bulged like a swollen mitten.
'You had frostbite,' Erin said gently. 'We got the healer to fix your hand as best as he could. You won't loose any fingers, but you will loose the feeling in them. You poor thing.' She sounded genuinely sorry for him, and she took his hand in hers and held it there.
Ariel clung onto her hand as a child would to his mother, and laid his cheeks against her skin. 'You are very kind,' he whispered. Her hand tightened.
A shadow glided across the wall, and there was a swish of robe against air.
'Father!'
Erin greeted the Druid and hugged him tightly. Then, with a quick glance at Ariel, tipped on the ball of her feet and whispered into the man's ears.
'Be gentle to him, father,' Ariel heard her say. His ears were trained to detect whispers. 'Look at him, have you seen anyone so delicate as he? We can keep him here with us, can't we, father? He's so harmless.'
The Druid did not answer his daughter. Gently he eased himself away from her and approached Ariel's bed. His eyes were questioning but not unreasonable, his face serious but not unkind. Erin hovered behind him anxiously.
'Child, what is your name?' the Druid asked.
Ariel gazed back with wide eyes, his face radiant with innocence and youth.
'Ariel, sir.' Shyly, he lowered his head and looked away, blond curls falling across his face.
He knew the Druid was taken to him. He sensed it in the air, in the way the old man's movement softened at the sound of his voice.
The Druid studied him. He could not keep his eyes away. He had never seen such a beautiful face, so sweet and full of perfection. It made himself feel good, as if the child's presence made his camp perfect.
He never had a son before.
'Tell me child, where are you from? Why were you hiding out in the cold?' When Ariel did not answer, the Druid touched his chin gently and tilted his face to the light. To his astonishment, the boy's mouth trembled, and tears glistened in his large eyes. 'Child?'
He nearly said, 'son'. Such were the effects Ariel had on people.
Fervently, Ariel wept. Great, wet tears cascading down his chin, splashing the Druid's sleeves. He wept in earnest, drawing both the daughter and father's unrelenting sympathy.
'I…I don't know, sir,' he said wretchedly through gasps of breaths. 'I don't remember anything… I don't know where I am, or where I'm from. I'm scared.'
The Druid's eyes were bright. Any thoughts of questioning leaked from his mind like the tears that now fell along his withered cheeks. Without warning, Ariel flung his arms around the old man and hugged him hard. 'I'm sorry, sir,' he said through tears. 'I'm sorry I can't remember anything to tell you…'
'Its all right, child,' the Druid said soothingly. He was deeply and utterly touched, his soul snatched away by the boy's avid act of affection. It made his heart thud, pulsing in joy that this boy, this beautiful child, would like someone such as himself.
'Its all right,' he said again, patting the boy's back. 'Everything will be all right, now.'
Quavering in a depiction of gratitude, Ariel opened his eyes into the Druid's robes. The face that pressed into the material was emotionless. Blank.
He had them hooked. The daughter would worship him. Already he could feel her mind stirring with eagerness for familiarity. She could not wait to speak to him again. She would pamper him, he was certain. And the Druid, the old ex-herder whose heart hungered for affection and perfection – he already regarded Ariel as his son.
In the darkness of the Druid's embrace, Ariel smiled. Yes, crying was a weakness, but even weaknesses brewed strength when handled carefully. He was going to survive after all. He was going to live.
The ultimate revenge, he thought.